


Osteoderms

by kaelio



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: S04E01 Way of the Warrior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaelio/pseuds/kaelio
Summary: A conversation between Dr. Bashir and Garak about how records are written.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak (relevant)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 73





	Osteoderms

The osteoderms in a Cardassian’s skin begin as pockets of cartilage, flexible and weak. Over time, osteoblasts—bone-depositing cells—align in an array overseen by deep genetics, and slowly, gradually, they exchange cartilage for bone via dalliance with osteoid (as such is the work of traders, the old middlemen). And bone remains, like all bone, hard and uncompromising and not at all dead but, in fact, remarkably alive. Osteocytes—mature bone—carry on the work, because a skeleton does not die until betrayed by its rider.

And there is work, work to be done: say, when bone is chipped, fractured, just a bit or indeed entirely—sundered into splinters, as has been known to happen—and the osteoblasts return. They arrive (at the osteocytes’ summons) to deposit bone again, to remake and reinforce what had been there by natural design and—as the body stipulates—really must be there again.

Every time there is damage to the bone of a Cardassian—to the axial skeleton, to the appendicular skeleton, to the dermal plating, to the ridiculous hyoid which must have been baked in from ancient humanoids because every fool thing on two legs seems to have it—there returns bone, bone, bone, bone to bind, bone to secure, bone to fortify, ossified layers for the body’s controlled and extremely personal diagenesis.

Which is to say, bone is a structure that knows its mission, and if ever there is bone insufficient, it will be made sufficient, and it will be made whole again—and next time, very much stronger.

And Garak recalls this, as he lies on his back in MedLab, though he’s not entirely sure why. Perhaps it’s because the doctor’s brow is furrowed, and for a simple, precious moment, Garak gets to enjoy a thing he knows very well: that absolute truth is a fiction. (And that is a truth he knows absolutely.) Among members of the Federation, and when applying his knowledge to those of member species, Dr. Bashir is a savant. As a Cardassian doctor, and doctor to Cardassians, he is middling. Dr. Bashir is a marvel and barely adequate.

Garak’s bones will mend and tighten, and he knows this, and he’s skeptical that Bashir knows the same. ( _Now_ who’s the doctor?)

And if Dr. Bashir knew how to interpret the layers, he could tally every wallop Garak’s ever received, and very well estimate his age, because there’s very little time between his birth and the very first incident. It is written into his bones because that is honest to existence and every kind of trauma in it, which makes it a privilege—the unassailable record of it—as Garak would contend.

“I can’t believe you’re not pressing charges,” the doctor says. And he means it, like among its peers it would allege itself conspicuous (if _only_ he could read bone, and he can’t: _mediocre_ ).

“Constable Odo and Captain Sisko expressed similar concern” Garak replies. “But really, Doctor, there was no harm done.”

“They broke seven of your transverse ribs and fractured your clavicle.”

(As if _Garak_ needed reminding. He could read it; it was being written on his body as they spoke.)

Garak pressed a hand to his sternum, to feel the etchings. He delved into it, from time to time, the feeling of his body choosing more—more life, without consulting whoever had done the injury, or the skeleton’s rider, who may well be finished and have want of it no longer. The body chooses. “I am certain it is merely a misunderstanding.”

“And what, then, was misunderstood?” the doctor challenges. (And on Garak’s behalf!) He even tries to press Garak back down, into position, supine, when he would rather sit. The touch guides gently, but Garak won’t have it.

“My dear Doctor, I am not a litigious man. I would no more ‘press charges’”—(he tastes it in Standard)—“against those poor, misled Klingons than I would against the boy Rugal. These things happen.”

And Dr. Bashir frowns. “That was different.”

Garak smiles. “Of course. It is different every time.”

Dr. Bashir—Julian! Deep, dark eyes—appraises him with something close to pity, and it is really a shame, and quite unnecessary. “It’s not healthy, taking events like this for granted, Garak. You should feel safe here.”

//

Not long after, Garak is supine—again!—in MedLab, and he remembers, and he remembers remembering: these things will be written in bone. And it’s really quite funny because—

“I’m not sure what—”

Garak holds up a hand. “I won’t be pressing charges, doctor. You know how I feel about such things. I couldn’t have expressed it more clearly.”

(He’s been shot, and it does hurt, and the bone will be thicker there; it will be thicker until he dies.)

And Dr. Bashir isn’t sure what to say, in the moment.

“Quark’s ridiculous malfunctioning holosuites! Well. Every business has its challenges, and I would hate for his insurance premiums to drive him from the station. Anyone else would have spaced the kanar.”

“Garak.”

A small piece and nothing to it. Garak merely clicked his tongue. “I will have a word with him, of course. But from the sounds of it, chief O’Brien has done as much already. It won’t happen again.”

“ _Garak,_ ”—and there’s a touch, but it’s cautious, hesitant—“This isn’t like before.”

“And what did I tell you, Doctor?”

“’It is different every time.’”

(And it would never be exactly the same.)


End file.
